Ralph was inclin’d to pursue the study of poetry, not doubting but he might become eminent in it, and make his fortune by it, alleging that the best poets must, when they first began to write, make as many faults as he did.  Osborne dissuaded him, assur’d him he had no genius for poetry, and advis’d him to think of nothing beyond the business he was bred to; that, in the mercantile way, tho’ he had no stock, he might, by his diligence and punctuality, recommend himself to employment as a factor, and in time acquire wherewith to trade on his own account.  I approv’d the amusing one’s self with poetry now and then, so far as to improve one’s language, but no farther.

On this it was propos’d that we should each of us, at our next meeting, produce a piece of our own composing, in order to improve by our mutual observations, criticisms, and corrections.  As language and expression were what we had in view, we excluded all considerations of invention by agreeing that the task should be a version of the eighteenth Psalm, which describes the descent of a Deity.  When the time of our meeting drew nigh, Ralph called on me first, and let me know his piece was ready.  I told him I had been busy, and, having little inclination, had done nothing.  He then show’d me his piece for my opinion, and I much approv’d it, as it appear’d to me to have great merit.  “Now,” says he, “Osborne never will allow the least merit in any thing of mine, but makes 1000 criticisms out of mere envy.  He is not so jealous of you; I wish, therefore, you would take this piece, and produce it as yours; I will pretend not to have had time, and so produce nothing.  We shall then see what he will say to it.”  It was agreed, and I immediately transcrib’d it, that it might appear in my own hand.

We met; Watson’s performance was read; there were some beauties in it, but many defects.  Osborne’s was read; it was much better; Ralph did it justice; remarked some faults, but applauded the beauties.  He himself had nothing to produce.  I was backward; seemed desirous of being excused; had not had sufficient time to correct, etc.; but no excuse could be admitted; produce I must.  It was read and repeated; Watson and Osborne gave up the contest, and join’d in applauding it.  Ralph only made some criticisms, and propos’d some amendments; but I defended my text.  Osborne was against Ralph, and told him he was no better a critic than poet, so he dropt the argument.  As they two went home together, Osborne expressed himself still more strongly in favor of what he thought my production; having restrain’d himself before, as he said, lest I should think it flattery.  “But who would have imagin’d,” said he, “that Franklin had been capable of such a performance; such painting, such force, such fire!  He has even improv’d the original.  In his common conversation he seems to have no choice of words; he hesitates and blunders; and yet, good God! how he writes!” When we next met, Ralph discovered the trick we had plaid him, and Osborne was a little laught at.